Never too Late
by Dwiddle
Summary: AU. Never keep your thoughts a secret. Because one day it might be too late. Finn learned this at a young age, and wishes he hadn't,


Did I really ever think about the consequences of my actions? Did I ever once think that tomorrow would be the final cut? That if I don't do it today I won't be able to do it tomorrow? That procrastinating really doesn't help anything?

No. It never did occur to me.

And now it's too late.

I walked up the front porch stairs, entering my house. It wasn't anything special. I took off my shoes and placed them on the dirty mat next to the front door and started walking to the stairs to go up to my room. From the aroma of the house I knew my mom was cooking dinner. I didn't really care. I didn't care for anything anymore really.

I made it to the top of the steps and turned left to head to my room. Most of the time I stayed in there, only ever coming out to eat and go to the bathroom. I didn't have the energy to do anything. Why should I? The only person who did anything in this house anymore was my mom. My step-dad only walked around in a haze, not really living. I would come home and he would either be in him room locked up or on the couch staring at the TV, only not watching. I don't blame him. I'm not really any different.

All I could really do was think of what I could have done. Make different scenarios in my head, hoping that one day I'll close my eyes and those thoughts will become reality. That right now I'm living in a dream.

More like a nightmare.

I got into my room, and one look at that could explain everything about me. My bed was unmade, clothes and papers scattered all around the floor, a small TV with video game consoles around it, posters on the wall. It looked like any average high school boy's room. Even that thought angered me. I didn't want to be a high school boy. They were idiots. They couldn't be open to anything. If you weren't in their liking they got rid of you.

Literally.

I fell down onto my bed and punched the mattress in frustration. Nothing ever went right in my life. Sure, I was the quarterback of the football team, I had an amazing girlfriend, I was popular, tall, and any guy could want to be me. Except me. I wish I was someone else. Then I wouldn't have to have the feeling of hopelessness and regret and guilt. I hit the mattress again, like if I hit it enough it could change everything. Why?

Why?

Why?

I glanced at the alarm clock on the table beside my bed. Six o'clock. I've been up here for two hours thinking, again. My mom probably already had dinner ready. I don't care. No one really cares anymore. She would make the dinner and the rest of us would just come down whenever we got too hungry and had to eat. I missed when we had dinner as a family. We would all sit at the table and talked about everything and anything. We would all laugh and smile and have a good time. Like we were one happy family. We _were_ one happy family.

That was until he left.

Tears weld up in my eyes. I couldn't even think about him without feeling horrible. I could have stopped it. I could have changed it. But I didn't. I sat back and let the events unfold in front of my eyes. And now I have to pay the price.

I miss him. I loved him. He was my little brother.

He was a year younger than me. He was average height, chestnut brown hair with glaz eyes. He was pale and looked like he was made of porcelain; like he could break at any second. And he did. He was broken past the point of fixing. And somehow I never noticed, until it was too late.

I hate people. I never understood them. Never have, never will.

My brother was the sweetest guy you could ever meet. All he did was try to please people and make everyone else happy. He put others before himself, even when he was sick or hurt he would put others before himself just to get them to smile. I've never seen him yell, get angry, or even try to hurt someone or make them sad. He was like an angel.

And then he was killed, beaten to death. Why?

Because he was gay.

That's why I don't understand people. All he did was try to help others, and he was killed for who he was. Even before he was murdered he was bullied for who he was. And what was worse, I used to bully him too.

Whenever my mom married his dad while we were in middle school, I ignored him. I didn't want to have anything to do with him. I was popular, he wasn't. It was that simple. So whenever the other guys on the football team told me to help them throw him in a dumpster, or shove him into lockers, I didn't object. Sure, I wasn't the main cause, but I didn't stop it.

After a while, our parents moved in together. So me and him had to live together too. I didn't know what to do. Every day he would always come up to me and try to talk, try to hang out, try to do stuff for me. I thought he was trying to hit on me, so I started avoiding him instead. I would hide in the bathroom after showers, I would lock my doors whenever I changed my clothes, I would do whatever I could to not have to be near him. He seemed to get the idea after a few weeks of my avoidance and avoided me too.

I thought that would make me happy at first. But then the silence started to get to me. Even whenever I stopped bullying him to ignore him, everyone else had started to do it worse. He had no friends, so he would go to school, do his work and stay quiet, and then go home. What I didn't get, though, was he never told his dad what was happening. When his dad would ask how his day was he would answer that it was 'good' or 'fine'.

I guess that's where his priorities were. His dad's happiness was more important than his own. That's when my view of him started to change. At home I would pay more attention to him. I would talk to him and try to hang out.

He started to smile that day.

From then on we were really close at home, like real brothers. But at school he was still the loner and I was still the popular jock who watched his friends torture his little brother. I thought he would hate me for that. But he didn't. We would get home and he would talk to me like I didn't blatantly ignore him that whole day.

Then the day I started to truly hate people came.

I got out of my Spanish class and started to head to the locker room to get ready for football practice when I heard it. It was muffled, but I could tell it sounded like a fight. I ran to the locker room and flung the door open to see something I wish I hadn't.

My brother was lying on the ground, bleeding, while another football player was beating him.

That's when I went berserk. I ran over and shoved the guy off of him and punched him in the face. Before he could figure out what had just happened, I grabbed my brother and ran. Ran out of the room and out of the school. Ran across the parking lot and home. I got the key from in the flower pot and unlocked the door, going inside and dragging him behind me. I didn't talk and neither did he was I dragged him to the bathroom to wash off his face. My mom and his dad were both at work, so the house was empty. No one had to know this happened except us.

"Why didn't you scream for help?" He looked directly at me when I asked. Why didn't he? It would be the right thing to do when someone was beating the heck out of you.

"Why? It wouldn't really do any good." I stared at him in confusion. What did that even mean?

"Yes it would have! Someone would have come and helped you before this happened," I gestured to his bloody face, my voice raising. He looked away from me, his voice growing softer.

"No one cared before. Not even you."

I think that was the only time he ever tried to be rude to anyone.

After that I was always by his side, at home and at school. I had to make sure he was safe. He was my little brother and I loved him more than anything. Now I saw what popularity did to people. I quit football, much to everyone else's anger. I don't care. They didn't care about my brother's feelings.

It seemed to be fine after that. People were too scared to mess with me. And since I was almost always with him, they didn't want to come near us. At home was amazing. We would always watch TV, even if we didn't agree on the channel. It would still be fun. Life seemed great.

That all ended the day I had to stay home from school with a cold. I woke up feeling horrible and my mom told me to stay home. I was worried sick. Without me at school, who would protect him? I had to go. But no matter what, my mom said I couldn't leave the house. I lay down in my bed sighing, knowing there was no arguing with her. Besides, what could happen in one day?

A lot.

Two o'clock came around and I was bored as ever. I was in bed playing videogames.

Four o'clock came around. School was out, so he should be home soon.

Five o'clock came. I started to get worried. We always got home at four thirty when we came together. So what was taking him so long? He was by himself, so he didn't have to wait for me to get all my equipment from the locker room.

My mom got home at six. I slowly got to my feet and went downstairs to tell her he wasn't home yet. Then I found her in the living room and I immediately thought the worst. She was sitting on the couch facing the TV, but it was off. She was silently crying into her hands. I ran over to her.

"Mom? What's wrong?" She looked up at me and then grabbed me, pulling me into a tight hug. I awkwardly patted her back as she cried into my shoulder. I was never good with comforting people. After a few minutes her sobs died down to a quiet sniffle.

She broke the news then.

She told me that I wouldn't see my brother again.

After school one of the teachers had went to their car when they heard it. The sound of a blunt object hitting one of the dumpsters. They went over to the source of the noise to see the culprits running the opposite direction. Then they saw the blood on the ground and opened the dumpster.

He was in there.

She said how the teacher described that you could hardly tell who it was from how injured he was. Blood was all over the place and covering everything while his arms and legs were bent in directions they never should be able to go. They didn't even need to take him to a hospital to know he was dead.

Murdered.

I didn't even say goodbye to him that morning.

I never told him how much I loved him, how much he meant to me.

Now I never can.


End file.
